Apples

I know this land; I grew up here. I know it all, and it is real. But this portion, the portion I seek today, it exists outside time, in a fold of space and reality. This is a land that denies it's nonexistence and belies its simplicity.

I have been to this land before. A year prior, I found the fence. It stretches from horizon to horizon, beyond is another geography, another reality. I have traveled there. I have taken friends and family.

Today however is different. Today I go to harvest apples. I planted the trees months ago between a shed in my reality and the fence. In mere months the trees have fully grown and are now laden with fruit. They were baring fruit on my last visit, but now they are ripe to the point of rotting.

Apples are scattered on the ground. I know they are not edible, but they are valuable. I ignore the black viscous liquid leaking from them and drop them in a narrow but deep pit. The morass seethes, but I know its power.

I call others and show them the power I have gathered in the pit. I do this simply and directly by jumping in. I pass without event or delay beneath the dark surface only to reappear among those I had just left. The apples' blackness conveys a person to any locale to they choose.

We begin to gather the apples. The ripe ones are sweet to the taste and hold no power beyond the nutritional. But the ones on the edge, the ones tipping past ripe, a bite unleashed the blackness from their red shell and moving the person.

Such power is needed and to be shared. This is why I brought others, but my time is short and I am thrust unwilling back to reality.